Before We Visit the Goddess: A Novel

By Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

A beautiful, “deeply affecting” (Kirkus Reviews) novel from the bestselling, award-winning author of Sister of My Heart and The Mistress of Spices about three generations of mothers and daughters who must discover their greatest source of strength in one another.

Sweeping across the twentieth century, from the countryside of Bengal, India, to the streets of Houston, Texas, Before We Visit the Goddess takes readers on an extraordinary journey through the lives of three unforgettable women: Sabitri, Bela, and Tara. As the young daughter of a poor rural baker, Sabitri yearns to get an education, but schooling is impossible on the meager profits from her mother’s sweetshop. When a powerful local woman takes Sabitri under her wing, her generous offer soon proves dangerous after Sabitri makes a single, unforgiveable misstep. Years later, Sabitri’s own daughter, Bela, haunted by her mother’s choices, flees to America with her political refugee lover—but the world she finds is vastly different from her dreams. As the marriage crumbles and Bela decides to forge her own path, she unwittingly teaches her little girl, Tara, indelible lessons about freedom and loyalty that will take a lifetime to unravel.

Told through a sparkling symphony of voices—those of the women themselves and the men who loved them—Before We Visit the Goddess captures the gorgeous complexity of these multi-generational and transcontinental relationships, showing the deep threads of love and hope and bravery that define a family and a life. This is a “gracefully insightful, dazzlingly descriptive, and covertly stinging tale [that] illuminates the opposition women must confront, generation by generation, as they seek both independence and connection” (Booklist, starred review).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon & Schuster
• Release date: Apr 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781476792026

Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni is the author of sixteen books, including Oleander Girl, The Mistress of Spices, Sister of My Heart, Palace of Illusions, One Amazing Thing, and Before We Visit the Goddess. Her work has appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, and The New York Times, and has won, among other prizes, an American Book Award. Born in India, she currently lives in Texas and is the McDavid professor of Creative Writing at the University of Houston.

Book preview

Fortunate Lamps: 1995

Somewhere in the dark, jackals are howling. They like it when storms bring down the electric lines in the village, leaving only broken bits of moonlight. Maybe they have a blood-memory of how it was before humans came and pushed them to the edges.

By now Sabitri is usually asleep. The doctor has warned her that she needs to keep regular hours. Her heart isn’t doing too well, and there’s the blood pressure, too. Did she want to be bedridden and force-fed barley water? Did she want him to phone her daughter in Houston? Or Bipin Bihari Ghatak, her business manager who lived in Kolkata?

No, she did not. Bela would rant, which was her default state when besieged by guilt, and Bipin Bihari, who was her oldest friend, would go silent with worry because he hadn’t ever wanted Sabitri to move back to her ancestral village, so far from Kolkata, in her retirement. The savage lands, he termed it.

She sets out pen and paper on the rickety dining table next to the kerosene lamp. She takes care not to wake Rekha, snoring on her coir mat in the alcove, because then she’ll start scolding, the way longtime servants feel they’re entitled to.

The evening had started well, with her perched on the windowsill, watching sheets of rain blotting out the world. Gashes of lightning tore open the sky. Behind her Rekha wrung her hands. Let me shut the window. The rain will make all the bedclothes damp, the quilts will turn moldy, you’ll get the pneumonia again, and then what will we do? But Sabitri refused. She loved the smell of night rain: wet earth, darkness, but also something else, nameless and a little frightening. When she was young, no one could keep her indoors at times like this. Even now, after she had grown brittle and creaky, the storm tugged at her insides. Ah, but Bipin Bihari should have seen her tonight!

The phone rang. She wasn’t going to pick it up. That’s what she had bought that fancy expensive answering machine for. But then there was Bela’s voice, ragged. She’d been crying. What is it about children? An old need twisted in Sabitri’s chest. Protect, protect. She lunged unwisely across the dark and banged her knee; pain shot down her leg like a fire.

What happened? she called into the receiver, her voice sounding rough and angry, though she had not meant it to come out like that. Even now Bela had this effect on her.

But Bela, preoccupied as she often was by her own drama, didn’t seem to notice. She rushed into her tale. Tara was thinking of dropping out of college, they had to stop her, she’d only completed one semester, it would be the worst mistake of her life, the girl refused to listen to Bela, she never listened to anything her mother said nowadays.

Sabitri hid her concern. Sympathy would only make Bela cry more.

I’m sorry to hear this. But how cold and unfeeling she sounded.

You’ve got to write to her, Ma! You’re the grandmother. If you stress the right things, point out the dangers of her stupid choice, perhaps it’ll stop Tara from ruining her life!

Sabitri wanted to remind Bela that she had tried all of the above with her. What good had it done? Besides, Tara had never even seen Sabitri. Every time Sabitri had asked Bela to bring her to India, Bela had an excuse ready. Almost as though she—or maybe that husband of hers, that Sanjay—felt Sabitri would be a bad influence.

The years had taught Sabitri to keep such thoughts to herself. She said, instead, What made Tara want to drop out? She’s such a good student.

When she didn’t receive an answer, she continued, Has Tara’s father talked to her about this? There’s a better chance of her listening to him than to me. Aren’t they really close?

Silence at the other end, more distressing than any amount of weeping. Then Bela said, Tara isn’t talking to Sanjay at the moment.

Something else was wrong, something worse than Tara aborting her studies, which in America, Sabitri had heard, could easily be picked up again. Sabitri suddenly felt much older than her sixty-seven years. She didn’t have the strength to question Bela. What was the use of questions, anyway? Already she knew the most important thing: if her daughter—proud, stubborn, so like herself—had had anyone else to turn to, she would never have called Sabitri for help.

She wrote down, carefully, the college dorm address that Bela dictated. She promised to take a rickshaw to the post office early tomorrow morning. She promised to send the letter by express delivery.

Now she sits at the table that has been with her for decades, running her fingers over a gouge that Bela had hacked into the wood after they’d had a fight. What can she write in her rusty English to change Tara’s mind? She cannot even imagine her granddaughter’s life, the whirlwind foreign world she lives in. All Sabitri has is a handful of photos. The child Tara in a costume, brandishing a broomstick, celebrating some odd American festival, the point of which Sabitri could not figure out. A teenage Tara at a special party called a prom, alien and glamorous in a strapless dress. Sabitri had been intimidated by her glittery cheekbones, the sophistication of her plucked eyebrows. How different from the photo she kept in her drawer, under her sari-blouses: baby Tara in Bela’s arms, peering from under a woolly blue hood, a foggy orange bridge floating in the distance.

That had been the first photo. Sabitri still remembers the pang she felt on receiving it because she had so wanted to be present at Tara’s birth. But she hadn’t been invited.

Push away the past, that vessel in which all emotions curdle to regret. Start the letter.

Dearest Granddaughter Tara,

I am sure you are surprised to receive this, since customarily we write to each other only to send Bijoya greetings. Your mother informs me that you do not wish to continue with college. I am very sorry to hear this and hope you will reconsider. Without education, a woman has little chance of standing on her own feet. She will be forced to watch from the sidelines while others enjoy the life she has dreamed about—

Wrong, wrong, all wrong. An entire hour wasted. She balls up the sheet and throws it to the floor.

Dearest Granddaughter Tara,

You do not know how lucky you are to be sent to college. So many families are too poor to be able to afford such an expense. It would be a criminal waste if you do not avail yourself of the opportunity life has given you.

She hates what she has written, prissy, stilted, schoolmarmish. Tears it up. Her mind wanders, again, to the photos. Her favorite one, which she keeps on her dresser, is of Tara at the swimming pool, taken when she was nine. Dressed in a pink two-piece swimsuit, she balances on the edge of a board, about to leap into the water. Her face is filled with terror and elation.

How well Sabitri knows that feeling.

Sabitri’s own leap began, as so many things in Bengal do, with a platter of sweets. She has forgotten many things from that time—just a few years after Independence; she was only seventeen then—but the platter she remembers clearly: heavy, made of solid silver, with a sharp, raised edge that cut into her fingers as she carried it down a mud path behind her mother, Durga, who held a similar platter. Durga’s back was bent. As she walked, the knobs of her backbone bobbed up and down under her worn sari-blouse. She was the hardest worker Sabitri knew. But for her, their household would have fallen apart long ago, for her father was the kind of man the world routinely took advantage of. Sabitri felt a churning inside her as she watched her mother, a mix of sadness and anger and love.

The platters belonged to the Mittirs, the wealthiest family in the village. Their names were etched on the rims to discourage theft, or perhaps as a kind of proclamation. Mittir’s wife Leelamoyi had ordered the sweets from Durga for a luncheon. The Mittirs had their own cook, a brahmin imported from Kolkata, but Durga’s sweets, famous throughout the village, were far superior to anything he could have concocted. And Leelamoyi had to have the best.

Sabitri hadn’t wanted to come. Leelamoyi, who lived in Kolkata and only visited the village under duress during festival time, was known to have a sharp tongue, unpredictable moods, and an elevated notion of her own importance. She would surely remark on how tall Sabitri had grown and how, if her parents didn’t act fast, they wouldn’t be able to marry her off. But there was no one else to help Durga. Sabitri’s sister was too young. Her father was at the temple, where he was a part-time priest. And even if he had been home, he would have reminded them in his mild, surprised way that this wasn’t a man’s job. So here was Sabitri, sweating and irritated and trying not to step in cow dung.

Inside the Mittir home it was cool and misty, the windows covered with damp rushes. Two maids wielded large palm-leaf fans. Leelamoyi, surrounded by a gaggle of gossips, had spread her considerable bulk over a flowery silken sofa. She must have been in an expansive mood, because she tasted the desserts, pronounced them satisfactory, and handed Durga a stack of rupees without counting them. Then she looked Sabitri up and down.

What’s your daughter’s name again? she asked Durga.

Sabitri, Rani Ma.

Ha! Ambitious, aren’t you, naming her after the mythic heroine who snatched her husband from the clutches of Death himself. Well, you’d better find her a match fast, else she won’t have a husband at all.

Sabitri hid her fury and tugged at Durga’s sari, trying to get her to leave, but Durga said, Sabi doesn’t want to get married, Rani Ma. She wants to go to college. Wants to become a teacher. She’s smart. Stood first in the matric exams in the Girls School. But we don’t have the money.

Sabitri’s face burned. Go through life with your head held high, Durga had taught her. Why, then, would she humiliate herself—and Sabitri—by exposing to a rich, spoiled woman the tender dreams that Sabitri had entrusted to her? Dreams as impossible as sprouting wings. She would never confide in her mother again!

Sabitri thinks: If only one could erase the years—just long enough to say, I understand. But by the time she realized how much it had cost her mother to speak those words—Sabitri was a mother herself then, and alone—Durga was dead, beyond the reach of all apologies.

Really? Leelamoyi raised disbelieving eyebrows. Gold weighed down her arms. Just her bracelets would have paid for Sabitri’s college twice over.

Sometimes the unfairness of the world made Sabitri feel like she might burst. She pushed her way through the entourage toward the door.

Behind her Leelamoyi spoke sharply. Girl, did I say you could leave?

Sabitri considered disobedience, but an angry Leelamoyi could make their lives more miserable than they already were. She couldn’t do that to her family. She stopped, though she did not turn around.

Tell you what, Durga, Leelamoyi said, her voice indolent once more, if your impatient daughter is as smart as you claim, if she manages to get into a Kolkata college, I’ll pay her fees and let her stay in our home while she studies.

The sycophants jostled around Leelamoyi, jealously exclaiming at this goddesslike generosity, so much more than Sabitri deserved. Sabitri stood frozen in disbelief until Durga pulled her forward and told her to touch the Rani Ma’s feet in thanks.

The pure chill of marble against her forehead. Her thoughts whirling like a flock of startled birds. The drab dead-end wall of her future had just become a golden door. Thank you, she thought fervently, ashamed of her misjudgment. Leelamoyi’s voice, booming from above, did sound like a goddess’s. Sabitri could not decipher the words, though she heard the women titter in response.

A lifetime’s worth of impatience, days slow as cattle grazing in a parched summer field. Then she was in front of the Mittirs’ Kolkata home, peering through the wrought-iron gate, clutching a painted tin suitcase in a sweaty hand. She had expected grandeur. Still, she was taken aback by the hugeness of the mansion, three stories tall, the shuttered windows like heavy-lidded eyes. Under an enormous portico gleamed a motorcar. The brick walls surrounding the compound were topped with broken glass to keep out intruders. A gatekeeper, thick-mustachioed as a bandit, banged his lathi on the paved driveway and shouted in his terrifying voice for her to move along. When she said that Leelamoyi had invited her to live here, he sneered in disbelief and tried to snatch away the letter of confirmation the Mittirs’ manager, Sarkar Moshai, had sent her.

How the matter would have ended she did not know, but right then a young man emerged from the house. What’s all the commotion? he asked.

His shirt blazed in the sun, blinding her. She had never seen anything so white. Later she would ask him what kind of soap the Mittirs used. But his life had not taken him anywhere near the washing area of the house, so he did not know.

She gathered her courage, pushed past the gatekeeper, and held out the note with desperate, trembling fingers. The young man gave it a brief glance and ordered the gateman to send her in to Sarkar Moshai. Make sure someone gives her food and water, he added. Can’t you see she’s exhausted?

Before Sabitri could thank him, he stepped into the waiting car.

Later she would say, You didn’t even read that note, did you?

No, he said. But I read your eyes.

Eyes can lie.

Not yours, he said.

Useless, these rambling memories. Focus on the letter, the one thing that might make a difference in the future.

Granddaughter, people look down on a woman without education. She has few options. To survive, she is forced to put up with ill-treatment. She must depend on the kindness of strangers, an unsure thing. I do not want that for you—

Even the most startling adventure, sooner or later, must become routine. So it was with Sabitri. Each morning she took the tram to the women’s college, where most of her classes were held. For science and mathematics, she walked to a nearby men’s college with a small group of girls. They sat in a nervous clump on a back bench because they had never had male classmates. The professors addressed only the men. Sabitri was mostly grateful to be ignored. The village school had not prepared her adequately; it was only with frantic effort that she managed to keep up.

After classes, she studied in the library with two girls who were also from distant villages, sharing textbooks since none of them had enough money to buy them all. Sabitri received a monthly stipend from Sarkar Moshai, but it was barely enough to pay her fees and her tram fare, and she was too shy to ask for more. In between homework, they spoke of their families, how much they missed them. The girls stayed in a run-down women’s hostel, six to a room. Once they went with Sabitri to see where she lived and stood staring at the mansion. Struck dumb by their amazement, Sabitri couldn’t tell them how unhappy she was there.

So many things run together in her head nowadays. But this she remembers: On the day of her arrival, Paro, Leelamoyi’s favorite maid, had taken her to the second floor. Leelamoyi sat on a four-poster bed carved with massive lion paws, playing cards with three friends. Sunlight dazzled an oval vanity mirror that stood, tilted, on a mahogany stand. On the wall was a clock unlike anything Sabitri had seen. Even as she stared, it struck the hour, and a little wooden bird popped out with a series of squawks, startling her so that she jumped. And the windows—with their shutters thrown wide, they were as big as doors. Through the bars, she could see hosts of treetops dancing in the breeze. It was like living in a leafy ocean. If this was Sabitri’s room, she would have sat on the windowsill all day, staring into the sky. But these women didn’t even glance out.

Paro gave a small, apologetic cough and Leelamoyi looked up, frowning.

Who’s this? she said.

Sabitri had prepared a careful speech about appreciation and gratitude, but when she realized Leelamoyi had forgotten her, she grew flustered. Her words ran into each other as she tried to explain her presence.

Leelamoyi raised her hand to cut her off. Ah, yes, you’re that sweet-maker’s daughter. Study hard now, and stay out of trouble. She turned back to her cards, and Paro pinched Sabitri’s arm, indicating that she had been dismissed.

Paro showed her where she would stay, a musty ground-floor room with a tiny, barred window set too high for Sabitri to look out. A weight pressed down on her chest—she can feel it even today. Their mud hut in the village had been rudimentary, but there was dappled light, the bright emerald of lau vines climbing up a wall. She knows now that Paro could easily have given her a better room—many lay empty in that mansion. But Paro had taken a dislike to her. Perhaps she resented her because she did no housework and yet received food and lodging. Sabitri wept that night for her mother, for the lost moon. For her own folly in believing that Leelamoyi’s benevolence had been something more than a moment’s caprice.

It took her some time to understand her complicated position in the household’s hierarchy: neither servant nor master. She was of a higher caste than the servants, but they made the important decisions: what she would eat, where she would bathe and hang her clothes to dry. They hesitated to ill-treat her because she was the daughter of a temple priest; but it was a small temple in a faraway village, so they did not feel compelled to treat her well. Someone would put her morning meal, a thala of rice with a dollop of dal thrown over it, a grudging piece of fish dumped on the side, in the passageway outside the kitchen in the mornings. She sat on the floor by herself and ate before leaving for college. The aroma of the dishes being cooked for the Mittirs—jackfruit curry, mutton kurma, biryani—assailed her. She hungered also for the bits of conversation floating from the kitchen: a moment of laughter, a raucous fight between the cook and the bazaar-servant. Her stomach ached with the longing to be included. At night she was afraid to arrive too soon for dinner; she didn’t want the servants to think she was greedy. By the time she sat down to her meal, the rutis were leathery, the vegetables dry. Dinner was when she missed her mother the most. At home they had eaten together, Durga listening with fascinated admiration to Sabitri’s recital of her day.

One evening, gathering her sari from the clothesline at the far end of the backyard, she noticed a narrow winding staircase, rusted in places. She climbed it—perhaps from a desire to escape. It led to a terrace, empty except for water tanks marked with pigeon droppings, a place where no one came. She made it hers. Each night after dinner she escaped to it, careful to ensure no one saw her. She looked at the stars and imagined them shining on her family. She finger-traced words onto the twinkling vastness of the sky, the things she would have written to her mother had Durga been able to read. Sometimes she wrote things she needed to believe: I’m lucky to be in Kolkata, getting an education. How many girls get this opportunity? Soon I’ll get a great job. I’ll earn enough money so my family will never be hungry again. Sometimes she whispered into the dark the saying Durga had quoted before bidding her goodbye: Good daughters are fortunate lamps, brightening the family’s name. There was a second part to the saying, but Durga had left that out. When she said goodbye to her daughter, her eyes had glittered like broken glass. To send Sabitri to Kolkata, she’d had to fight all their relatives, who warned her that she was sending the girl to her ruination. Remembering that gave Sabitri the strength to go down to her cheerless room for another long night of study.

Granddaughter, this is the truth: if you are uneducated, people look down on you. To survive, you are forced to accept crumbs thrown from a rich man’s table. How can such a woman ever brighten the family name?

One morning when Sabitri came to the passageway, there was no food. She ventured through the door to find out why. The kitchen was in an uproar. Leelamoyi had ordered the cook to make rasogollas for a luncheon, and so he had. But something had gone wrong. The soft round balls that should have been floating in syrup had exploded into hundreds of pieces. There was no time to make another batch. How shamed Leelamoyi would be if the guests had to be served store-bought sweets! Cooks had been fired for less.

I won’t be going alone, the cook was shouting. I’ll make sure you all come with me. He transfixed Sabitri with a terrifying frown. "What do you want?"

Don’t meddle, her wiser side warned. But she heard herself saying, in a small voice, that maybe she could fix the problem. The cook glared at her effrontery, but then he waved her in. Her hands shook as she boiled milk, sweetening it with jaggery syrup. She shredded the exploded balls into tiny pieces, remembering how her mother did it. She added them to the milk, along with ground cardamom and chopped pistachios. She was late for college already. But the mixture needed

Reviews for Before We Visit the Goddess

[sidiki-8 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

My first Divakaruni certainly not the last. There is a mystery and a humor in her storytelling ability like Salman Rushdie but his style is absurd, unrealistic and cold while hers is believable and touches the heart . I didn’t feel sympathy for any character though but still I couldn’t put the book down I found it so enjoyable . I didn’t find the switching of the years in every chapter confusing as other readers did.

[brittanylyn · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The story of four generations of Indian women, this novel explores the complicated, and at times volatile, relationships between mothers and daughters. The motif of rebellion is rife throughout these pages. The struggle for self-identity was also told through the perspective of all characters. An intrinsic look at the lessons we learn, often too late. I found this novel most entertaining, and at times very heartfelt. I did have some problems with switch of narrative between third person and first-person. Especially when two characters were both expressed through point-of-view narration, yet they were fairly irrelevant to each other. The struggle to know where we come from, and the opportunities we miss along the way through pride was a story that struck a true chord within me.

[jessiqa_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book takes the reader through the lives of three generations of Indian women, starting with Sabitri who was born poor in Bengal province yet lived to see her dream of a sweet shop in Kolkata take flight. Her daughter, Bela left India when she eloped with Sanjay to the United States. Bela’s daughter Tara dropped out of college after her parents split up, but got back on track after a harrowing experience with a stranger.I love books like this, which move across points of view and time to fill in the greater story. Sabitri was my favorite character, though I also really liked Mrs. Mehta and wish she had a greater presence in the book. The story is about disappointment and failed dreams and how they can have generational effects. The book ends on a hopeful note, and is beautifully told. I recommend this to anyone who enjoys books about mothers and daughters.

[beamis12 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

3.5 Three generations of women, mothers and daughters, relationships fraught with misunderstandings and conflicts. I think I understood Sabitri the most, identified with her and came to really admire all she accomplished. Her daughter Bela, I felt was very selfish, couldn't understand how she did what she did. Did warm up to her by the end of the book, but never really identified with her and hated the way she treated her mother. Tara, Belas daughter I was very conflicted about until the very end. Still this is a well written book, an inside look at the struggles many mothers and daughters experience. Loved the ending and felt the characters had a large amount of depth. The skipping around in time periods worked and didn't, at times it was frustrating. Still, I enjoy this author and the stories she tells. Interesting and heartfelt.Arc from publisher.

[brangwinn · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Focusing on three generations of women, Divakaruni’s novel moves from Bengal India to the United States. Each generation must discover the strength within themselves to be successful and happy. Sabitri, grew up in rural Bengal. She is given the chance to go to college to become a teacher. She marries and becomes the dutiful Indian wife. On her husband’s death, she is forced to create a way to survive for both she and her daughter. Bela, the daughter, runs away to America to marry a man Sabitri doesn’t like. Her daughter, Tara, continues the cycle of unhappiness before finding happiness, and reconciliation with her mother.

[sbenne3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A nice read about family through the generations. It was actually much more engaging than I thought and tied together well. It bounced around a bit to keep the read interesting. It was a bit predictable at times and not all loose ends were tied up, but the theme held tight and the messages were well received about family, judgements, and knowing who you are and what is important.

[texasbooklover · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

FICTIONChitra Banerjee DivakaruniBefore We Visit the GoddessSimon & SchusterHardcover, 978-1-4767-9200-2 (also available as an ebook, audiobook, and on Audible), 224 pgs., $25.00April 19, 2016 “What is more painful, the misplaced past or the runaway future?” It’s 1995 and Sabitri, in questionable health, has retired to her ancestral village in India. Receiving a desperate late-night phone call from her estranged daughter, Bela, in Houston, Texas, Sabitri begins a letter to her granddaughter, Tara, who has decided to drop out of college—but Sabitri dies before the letter is mailed. Fast forward to 1998: Tara has dropped out of college and is working in a thrift store in Houston, aimless and disconnected from her Indian heritage and a community that might offer her support, estranged from her mother and father, never knowing her grandmother. Before We Visit the Goddess, the seventeenth book by American Book Award winner Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, is about dislocation: from family, country, and history; and the inevitable conflict resulting from each successive generation’s refusal, or inability, to learn from the mistakes of the previous generation. These women have more in common than they know. The plot is simple and would almost be a comedy of errors if the results weren’t so frequently tragic. The narrative, told by multiple characters and varying points of view—sometimes third person, other times first—is challenging as the flow is constantly interrupted by time and space, jumping around between the past, beginning in 1963, and ending up in the future, 2020; and between India, California, and Texas. On the other hand, this technique neatly mirrors the feelings of dislocation experienced by the diverse, well-developed characters. All of the principals are complex human beings in their successes and failures, provided with rich backstories and motivations. Divakaruni’s Houston is a joy in all of its multiples: racial, ethnic, cultural. She pokes a little fun at the “suburban funhouse” of street names in the surrounding bedroom communities: “Austin Colony, Austin Glen, Austin Crossing.” Divakaruni is adept at the just-right simile: the child Bela wakes from a fever in the hospital where “her mother’s face looms large over the bed, alarming as an out-of-orbit moon”; and when a young man who has recently suffered a heartbreak is asked out by a new man his “chest felt like it was too small to contain all the things knocking around inside it. Heart, lungs, excitement, a surge of blood like sorrow. The backwash of memories.” With its embossed dust jacket, Before We Visit the Goddess is a physically beautiful book in which Divakaruni writes passionately, although sometimes sentimentally, about loss, regret, and the importance of communication and forgiveness. Though the ending is rather abrupt, it is satisfying and hopeful. We fail each other, not necessarily from selfishness, but from obliviousness and with the best of intentions.Originally published by Lone Star Literary Life.

[bookishtexpat · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Such a lovely and captivating story of three generation of women in India and the U.S. I loved the way Divakaruni played with time and space, moving non-chronologically through the trials of Sabitri, Bela, and Tara. It didn't feel sporadic but rather sucked me further into the story as I wanted to know more. I also loved the jumps in time and the gaps left for the reader to fill in. Beautiful writing, a story of joy and tragedy, this was a fantastic novel.